


All Is Well, Safely Rest

by justkisa



Category: Football RPF, MCFC RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-03
Updated: 2013-08-03
Packaged: 2017-12-22 07:57:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/910781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justkisa/pseuds/justkisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the long flight back to Manchester, Jack checks on Matija and tries to make him feel a little better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Is Well, Safely Rest

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Matija was injured during the last of the pre-season friendlies City played in Hong Kong. 
> 
> 2) Based on a twitter conversation I had with [allthatconfetti](http://allthatconfetti.livejournal.com/).

The pain wakes Matija up. He doesn’t open his eyes, though, he just breathes, slow and deep, and hopes that he’ll slip right back into the oblivion of sleep. He doesn’t. His ankle throbs with a sharp, staccato drumbeat of pain that’s impossible to ignore. 

He keeps breathing, slow and deliberate, in and out, trying to focus on the rhythm of his breath instead of on the pain. He can hear the hum of the plane and the faint, familiar sound of Aleks snoring behind him. The plane is cold, too cold, and the air smells stale like old dinners, sweat, and too many people. 

He opens his eyes and blinks into the gloom of the cabin. A few rows up someone has the overhead light on. It’s the only light he sees. He feels fuzzy and slow - the way only really strong pain medication makes him feel. And still he hurts, the pain radiating up his leg, through his chest, until it feels like his whole body is pulsing with the same drumbeat of pain he feels in his ankle. 

His mouth is dry and there’s an acrid, metallic taste on his tongue, the tacky aftertaste of pain and fear. He swallows and his tongue feels swollen and dry in his mouth. He wants water, something - anything - to wash the taste away. 

He shifts a little so he can glance towards Stevan and his brace digs uncomfortably into his leg just under his knee. He looks where he’s expecting Stevan to be and blinks, confused, because it’s not Stevan next to him. He closes his eyes and opens them again because maybe he’s not remembering correctly, maybe he’d-- “Hey, Matty,” Jack says, his voice hushed and low. 

“Stevan,” he says dumbly, “ _Where’s_ \--”

“Matty?” Jack says and his voice pitches up, goes sharp with worry, and Matija realizes he’s forgotten to ask in English.

“ _Whe_ -” he starts and that’s still not English and Jack’s eyes are going wide, panicked, and Matjia can’t remember the right word, can’t dig it out of his pain and drug addled mind. “Stevan?” he says, instead, sure of at least that much.

Jack looks away. “He’s, uh, he’s back with Scott. I, uh, we swapped.” It doesn’t make sense. He understands Jack’s words, mostly, but it doesn’t make sense. He licks his lips and tries to find the right words. “I can,” Jack, says, glancing back, “Go get him, I mean, if you like, I’ll just--” He’s rushing his words and they blur together into a tangled mess Matija can’t unravel. 

“No,” he says because, maybe he does want Stevan, easy and familiar Stevan, but he wants - _needs_ \- to know what Jack’s doing here. 

Jack stops his rush of words and smiles a little. “No?”

Matija tries to nod but his head feels full of sand, too heavy to lift. “No,” he says again, then, “Only, what-- Why, why swa--” He can’t remember the word Jack’d used, hadn’t recognized it. 

Jack smiles a little. “Swapped,” he says, “means switched.” Jack’s always gentle with his corrections to Matija’s English, treats them with a straight-forward, matter-of-factness that never makes him feel stupid. Jack ducks his head and drums his fingers against his thigh. “I, uh, I just wanted to see how you were, you know? And then you were sleeping and I--” He glances at Matija. “So, uh, how’re you?”

He means to smile, to say something vague and reassuring, but what comes out is, “It hurts,” and, if he were more awake, more alert, he would’ve winced at the way his voice sounds so strained and raw. 

Jack turns so he’s looking straight at him. “Yeah,” he says, slow and solemn, “imagine it does.” He feels exposed - splayed open - under Jack’s gaze and he’d turn away but he feels heavy, worn down by the pain to the point where he feels like he can’t control his body, can’t make it do what he wants. “Do, uh,” Jack looks down, “do you want the physio or-- I could--” 

“No.” It’s the last thing he wants. The physio will poke him and prod him and fuss over him. He can’t bear it. Any of it. 

“Don’t want the bother, eh?” Jack says lightly.

“No,” he says as definitively as he can.

“Yeah,” Jack says, looking up, “All they do is poke and fuss and then you end up hurting even worse.” He would know, Matija thinks, and yet he sounds almost cheerful not bitter, not the way Matija thinks he would sound if he had Jack’s history. “Is there,” Jack says, low and hesitant, “I mean, is there anything I can do?”

He has to look away then, forces himself to. “No,” he says, “No. It-- Nothing to do. It only hurts and--” He presses his lips together. It’s more than he meant to say. He’s always doing that around Jack, spitting out all the things he doesn’t mean to say. 

“And?” Jack prompts, “And what, Matty?” 

It’d taken him forever to get used to the casual way his English teammates call him Nasta or Matty. And, even now that he’s used to it, it still seems odd - wrong. Except when Jack says it. Maybe it’s because Jack’s the only one who’d ever asked about it, just said one day, “Matty, I mean, I can call you that, right? Or, uh, Matija, I could..” and his pronunciation had been so terrible that Matija hadn’t been able to stop himself from laughing. Jack’d laughed right back and Matija had found himself nodding and saying, “Yes, Matty, is okay,” and somehow it was. 

“Matty,” Jack says again, soft and insistent, “What?”

“I,” Matija starts. He tries for coherence, for sensibleness, he does, but what he blurts out it is, “It hurts, and plane is very cold, and will miss games, many maybe, and I--”

“Hey,” Jack interrupts, “Hey, Matty, just--” He puts his hand on Matija’s knee and leans in so he’s looking Matija right in the eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, you’ll miss some games, maybe a lot, but,” he squeezes Matija’s knee and his tone turns fierce, “But you’ll be back, just as good - better - and you’ll walk right back into the team. Okay?” 

He sounds so sure and Matija wants to believe him. “Okay,” he says and Jack smiles, slow and brilliant and Matija forces his mouth into a smile because there’s no other response he can offer. 

“So,” Jack says after a moment, looking away, “You’re cold, huh?”

“Yes,” he says, “Plane is--”

“Well,” Jack interrupts, “that I can fix.” He sounds so pleased, like he wants nothing more than to fix things for Matija. “Just--” He stands up. “Wait, all right?”

It seems like Jack’s gone for a very long time but maybe he’s not. Matija can’t tell. Everything seems slowed down, every second stretched and pained. 

Then Jack’s back with one of the airline blankets in his hand. “Here we are,” he says with a smile. He shakes out the blanket and settles it over Matija. It’s light and the material’s scratchy against his arms. It doesn’t make him feel any warmer. Jack leans over and pulls the blanket up over his chest. He feels like he should protest, tell Jack that he’s not a child who needs tucking in, but the intent seriousness of Jack’s expression stops him. 

Jack pats his chest and sits back down. “Better?” he says. He’s not looking at Matija, though, he’s staring out toward the aisle. It isn’t better, not really, he’s still cold and his whole body hurts. 

He should say yes, though, because there’s nothing Jack can do, nothing anyone can do. “I,” he says, “I’m still cold.” He wants to take it back as soon as he says it. 

Jack laughs a little. “Yeah. Those blankets are a bit crap, aren’t they?” He lifts the arm rest up and scoots closer. He picks up the blanket and settles against Matija’s side, his thigh to Matija’s, his arm to Matija’s. He’s warm, so warm, and he smells fresh - clean - like the moment just after it starts to rain. This, Matija thinks, is another thing he should protest but he’s so cold and Jack’s so warm and his body’s sturdy and solid next to him, the bulk of him somehow comforting and steadying. He wants to press even closer. 

“Budge up a mo’,” Jack says, bumping his shoulder against Matija’s. Matija doesn’t understand what he means until he fumbles his arm around Matija’s shoulders. “Just,” Jack says, ‘lean a bit--” 

Matija can’t manage a lean but he slumps forward a bit. Jack wraps his arm around him, tucks him close and pulls the blanket around them both. “There,” he says, soft and low right in Matija’s ear, “Better?”

“Yes,” Matija says and the word sticks in his throat and comes out half-formed and hoarse. He tries again. “Yes.” And, somehow, it is better. “Thank you,” he says. 

“S’no trouble,“ Jack says. He pauses then adds, quiet and halting, “D’you, uh, you want to go back to sleep or--” Matija thinks he could. Jack’s heat and closeness is lulling - soothing - and he feels like he could slip back into sleep.

“Yes,” he says and closes his eyes.

“”Kay,” Jack says, “I’ll just...” He trails off and doesn’t say anything else.

Matija breathes, in and out, and lets himself settle against Jack’s side. 

When he wakes up again, they’re in Manchester and Jack’s still there, slumped against his side, fast asleep.


End file.
